Have you ever felt like you were living in a tangled mess? I know that I have and even though I’d like to say it’s all because of other people and things, it’s really not the case. I’m pretty good at creating my own messes. I’m very adept at getting caught up in distractions and worthless activities. I’m a pretty good bum. I enjoy being lazy and I relish not having a pressing “to do” list. I don’t like deadlines, yet when faced with one I can rise to the occasion and finish strong. 

With that in mind, enter the time of Advent which is one of my favorite seasons of the church calendar. Our tree has been decorated for several weeks now and my cute little snowmen collection adorns a table and hutch. Several batches of cookies have been baked and presents have been purchased. Stocking stuffer gifts are safely tucked away until their needed appearance on Christmas Eve. Missing from this Advent and for several years is the Advent Calendar. My children have grown and moved to their own homes. It is bittersweet to think the Advent calendar’s reminders that usher in Christmas have been put on hold so-to-speak. Hopefully, one day it will be used again when grandchildren are added into the mix of Christmas. I know that I could still use the calendar with the absence of children in our home. What caused me to keep it on the shelf? It must be my preconceived notion that Advent calendars need children. I will have to rethink that one.

During the last few days we received a good measure of snow which always puts me in a wonderful Christmas mood. I can’t explain why snow transforms my mind and spirit. There is something quite magical about watching the snowflakes fall and accumulate. I can sit by a open window during a gentle falling snow and be mesmerized for hours. Maybe it’s because during those times of being quiet I am transported back to my childhood memories of building snowmen, shoveling walks, ice skating, and making snowballs. Those years were kind and good years, treasured moments of being greeted by mom with hot chocolate and help getting out of snow covered play clothes, feeling her warm hands on my chilled face and hands.

So often during the days and weeks leading up to Christmas, I have heard friends say ‘I’ve got so much to do for Christmas’ or I’ve been asked ‘Are you ready for Christmas?’ I’ve always been puzzled by these two mindsets. If truth would be made known, I think we create our own ‘buziness’ and ‘stress’. Before you say ‘hey!’ you’ve done the same thing! my response is ‘yes, yes, I have’. …in years past. My truth to share with you is that I gave up creating Norman Rockwell Christmases a long time ago. I no longer run around trying to buy the perfect gifts. I stopped baking dozens of cookies years ago (I only prepare a few favorites and have even used store bought dough) and I no longer search recipe books for elegant sit down meals. Instead, I purchase gifts that I think my kids will need or enjoy whether at the store or on-line. Money that used to purchase expensive gifts is now being dropped in Salvation Army kettles and given to other worthy needs.  Big meals have been replaced with various trays of cheese, crackers and Chex Mix (a favorite traditional snack made by Jim & Sarah)…..and a few cookies.

By letting go of false expectations for the celebration of Christmas, I have gained a renewed love for the Truth of the season. Even though the Advent calendar is ‘on hold’ my love for anticipating God’s gift of the Christ Child has become more dear and precious to me. I’ve been reading an Advent devotion each morning from the Bible. Today’s writer lovingly cautioned ‘not to become a tangled mess during the Christmas’ season. These simple words reminded me of what I have ‘let go’ and what I have ’embraced’ as being more important. 

I don’t want to be lazy in my relationship with God. I don’t want to put off doing the important things that make Him smile. Like sitting by an open window enjoying a beautiful snowfall, I am developing being a bum on the couch reading my Bible and talking with my Heavenly Father. You know what? I did that today. I’m still in my jammies. The lights on lit on the tree and the snowmen. No snow is falling, but my Bible has been opened and my tangled messes have been delivered to the throne where I know they are being unraveled and straightened out by the work of His hands.

This past week we attended the funeral of a dear pastor from our ‘home’ church in Saginaw. What do I mean by ‘home church’? My ‘home church’ is that part of my memory bank where a lot of significant spiritual birth and growth began. My ‘home church’ is St. John Lutheran (2nd & Federal) in Saginaw, Michigan. For the time we lived in Saginaw it’s all I really knew. The church was established in 1852 (by a group of Germans) and eventually became the congregation that my mother’s parents joined upon their arrival to Saginaw from Europe in the early 1900’s. It’s the church that mom and her siblings were born into and educated in their small school through the 8th grade. It’s the church that mom and dad were married in and had us three kids baptized in as we came into this world. It’s the church where I met Jesus Christ as my personal savior and where I was married. It is the church where my own children were baptized as infants. It is the church where I sang my first solo…….and if confession is good for the soul…..stole a kiss from a boy when no one was looking. So, sitting in the pew for Doug’s funeral brought back a flood of  poignant memories accompanied by bittersweet tears. May I share some of those with you?

Above all, I cherish the many years that I would have attended and sat in the large sanctuary of St. John. We usually sat in the back of the church but as years passed mom and dad made their way to the front pews where they were joined by their closest friends.

When I reached junior high school age, I joined the youth choir. Later, I found myself in the Senior Choir, learning more difficult music and enjoying the ability to continue singing. It was here, under the direction of Verne Frede, that a shy 20 something year old was convinced over an hour lunch break to lay down fear and give solo work a chance. I am forever grateful for that leap of faith and Verne’s insistent challenge. Anyone who knew Verne knew how persuasive he could be when he had a goal in mind.

As I waited for the service to begin, I realized how all my senses were taking in the beauty of the sanctuary. There were the stained glass windows, the seasonal banners hanging from the chancel and the support beams of the ceiling. The piano and then the organ were spilling out familiar hymns and songs. As I listened to the music and gazed about the room my eyes came to rest on the Advent Wreath so beautifully displayed. A new rush of tears welled in my eyes as I realized that the walnut stained stand supporting the wreath was the one my dad had built in years past. Another remembrance for me of dad using his talents for The Lord. Dad served in many capacities over the years of being a part of St. John. I could see his face on the chancel as an assisting minister to read scripture, assuming his spot in the choir loft, or helping to make repairs to the building on a Trustees work day. Mom was more shy. She preferred to take a quiet role serving the church. She found a home in the prayer ministry and was a self-appointed encourager to younger folks. She also became a very proud grandma who was very patient tending to little Sarah while mom and dad were in the choir loft.

Perhaps the most difficult realization to grasp was an awareness of knowing that a large decline in attendance has taken place in the current season of St. John. A once packed sanctuary has given way to but less than 100 dedicated members gathering on Sunday morning for worship. It’s not hard for me to reach back into my youthful childhood memories and recall Christmas and Easter overflow of families causing the ushers to open the balcony. On Monday, an honest statement  “we dusted the balcony just in case” was shared. Sadly, the balcony wasn’t needed adding another dose of emptiness to a growing reality factor.

These are memories and some are mere things. Above all, in the midst of everything that I have described were the people that I saw and can still remember. I saw parents of kids that were in the youth group that I helped teach. I saw folks who sang in the choir with me. I saw folks who are old, worn, torn, but still loving and serving God. I saw a dear friend who was called into full-time ministry. And I saw dear, dear friends–even one who I call a sister. I saw one of the two pastors who taught me God’s Word during my catechism years. 

Can you go back ‘home’? While I cannot return to my family home other than to drive by now, I can go back to my ‘home church’ as long as the doors are open, take a seat in a familiar spot and open my mind and my heart to allow God’s Spirit to remind me of all that was good and beneficial to who I am today. If I close my eyes I can see the many Candlelight Services of Christmases past, the blanketed cross representative of Good Friday and Easter, the poinsettias or white lilies adorning the chancel and altar. I can hear the resonance of the organ and the call to worship by the ringing of the bells. Yes, I believe but for a moment one can ‘go back home’ and capture all that God has done, is doing, and will do in the season of growth for one of His children. 

Recently I read an article about the frail hands of a man and the lifetime stories they could tell. As I read that beautiful story I thought that I, too, could write about my dad’s hands and the numerous stories that his hands represented in the 90 years that he lived.

This photo was taken during one of my frequent visits to see dad when he lived in a memory care facility. As dad lost his ability to express himself verbally he relied on ‘touch’ and ‘use of his eyes’ to communicate his thoughts.  I’d like to tell you about my dad’s ‘hands’.

Dad was the middle child of 11. He was born and raised on a farm in northern Michigan during the Great Depression. Daily food came from the hard work of his parents and God’s provision. There wasn’t extra money for the things all kids want such as toys, games, and candy. Dad told us that “if we wanted a sled or wagon we made one out of scraps laying on a pile next to the barn”. Winters in northern Michigan provided ample opportunities for skiing and sledding, all activities he and his brothers enjoyed with their handcrafted creations. Later in life, dad’s ability to take pieces of wood and create something beautiful and useful would become more than a ‘need’ but rather a source of practical provision and generosity.

Upon returning to Saginaw following his service in the Korean Conflict, dad and mom purchased a lot in Zauel Subdivision and began the building of 2004 Arthur, our family home. The year was 1954 when the ranch style home with a one car attached garage and breezeway began his biggest do-it-yourself project. With the exception of the basement, plumbing, and electrical all other work was performed with his own hands. My brother Dave, who was about 8 at the time, helped lay the hardwood in the living room. I was content to sit on the stack of wood and watch until one afternoon I stood up, took my first steps, made the circle of rooms and kept on going.

Those were good years, the 50’s and 60’s. Mom was content in her home cooking wonderful meals, keeping house, and helping with school projects. Dad worked for the City of Saginaw and supplemented their income by building furniture for people and on occasion took on remodeling projects doing kitchens primarily.  In my 8th grade of education he tackled the job of remodeling mom’s kitchen, making it larger and up-to-date for the times.  In my high school years they purchased land on AuSable Lake and he built their cottage using repurposed materials. I have to wonder if doing so made him recall the scrap pile by the barn. 

Even though dad was very comfortable and adept using his power tools, his hands had many other purposes such as giving me my one and only spanking at age 3, playing catch in the front yard with my brothers, playing horseshoes with his brothers at grandma’s house, putting puzzles together as a family, making bread with mom, holding the bike seat so I could learn to ride a two-wheeler, serving communion at church…..the list is long and full of meaningful memories.

If you visit our home it is with pleasure that I can introduce you to each piece of furniture we own, handsomely built with precision and love by dad.  You will marvel at the curio cabinet which was our wedding gift and the dining room table which is a copycat version of one I saw in a catalogue. There’s even a small wooden cross that he mass produced for Easter years ago.

Perhaps the most treasured position dad’s hands took was the year mom died. In the early hours of the morning, when imminent death as calling, dad scooped mom up with his hands and arms and prayed a prayer of recommitment back to  the Lord. Her weakened body  which had been fashioned by a Heavenly Father and cared for  54 years by  work of dad’s hands was coming to a close.

In  September 2008 we moved dad to his last residence. That was a hard move for him  emotionally speaking. He  knew he was facing difficult times ahead.  After putting his things in order in his new room, he painstakingly gathered me and my niece to kneel and pray a prayer of thanksgiving for family and being cared for, his hands  folded in humility before God. This was to become a final act of worship that held deep significance for him  and a treasured gift for me.

Yes, dad’s hands spanned a lifetime of 90 years, of which I was able to be part of for almost 60 years. I love thinking of little boys and scrap piles, mountains of sawdust in the garage and basement, applauding  my high school  choral concerts, and playing with his grandchildren. I love telling and sharing his life with my family and friends.  I love that my dad’s hands reflected the goodness and love of my Heavenly  Father..  And, maybe just maybe dad doesn’t have to use a scrap pile anymore to build his newest project, but is enjoying using the richest of woods and shiniest of nails that his Father has laying near a beautiful red barn, just for him. 

While this photo is from a site unknown to me, incredibly its sheer beauty transports me to a tranquil place in my mind where I can escape for just a little while, allowing me to lay aside the demands of my day and the concerns of my life. I don’t know why it is exactly that I have come to love winter and a fresh blanket of snow. Perhaps it may be because of the many childhood memories that I have from winters past. Or, in a  spiritual sense fresh, clean snow paints a picture of cleansing and redemption for all that is soiled and impure. Depending on my needs, seeing snow and watching the magic of the transformation it brings to my surroundings is a feeling hard for me to describe.

I have to admit it’s always disheartening for me to be privy to conversations whereby one or several are spewing negative feelings regarding snow. I want to shout “NO!”–not me!! I LOVE snow. It’s clean, it’s white, it’s pure, it’s a free gift from God to play in and create snowmen, forts, and snowballs….all which create memories, especially for a little, wide eyed girl in the 60’s growing up in a neighborhood with about 30 kids in variety of ages who came together one beautiful cold winter afternoon for the Zauel Street Snowball Fight of snowball fights. A fresh, perfect snow for making snowballs  had taken place overnight. Teams were formed and plans with an appointed time of ambush had been set. Under proper supervision of each team captain, busy mittened hands built a snow wall in the front yards of the two opposing teams. These walls would be our protection against the onslaught of the flying frozen ammunition that was to come. Once we were satisfied with the height of our respective walls, we began the arduous, cold task of making snowballs. I don’t remember how many we made, but time was of the essence as we anticipated the countdown to the first launch. Each team worked in unity and harmony with one goal in mind–be ready and be on the winning team….and hope that at the appointed hour no cars would need to be using Zauel Street. (This really wasn’t an issue since our neighborhood was in the southwest corner of the city, much off the beaten path)

It’s been over 50 years and a lot of snowballs for me to remember if I was on the wining team. What I do remember is ‘someone’ announcing to halt making snowballs and ready for the big fight. In what seemed like a flurry of hands and arms, heads ducking to avoid a direct hit, and bobbing up and down behind our snow walls, in a matter of minutes the fight ended. Amid the sheer cold and exhaustion I remember screams of delight as a carefully aimed snowball found a target or the expressions of anguish being the recipient of a well thrown frozen ball accompanied by the realization that all supplies had been used. In what took hours to prepare, minutes werre able to consume, yet create and record a memory into the mind of this little girl. Those of us living and participating in the Zauel Street Snowball fight laughed for days, and whoever had bragging rights enjoyed weeks of feeling like champions.

That snowball fight is but one favorite memory. I was fortunate to live two blocks away from a city park that made two skating rinks every winter. Afternoons and weekends were spent on our ice skates. I was 11 years old when I got my first pair of skates. They were a gift from my older brother Mark. When he became old enough to drive, we often made the  short trip to Hoyt Park to skate. This was a much larger city park that was flooded with millions of gallons of water to form skating rinks. Mark occupied his skating with a pickup game of hockey while I practiced my fancy footwork nearby.

I  have many other good memories that have snow in the backdrop. There’s my brother’s  January 1967 wedding that was postponed for 24 hours……getting over 12 inches of snow one April workday, only to have the sun clear all the roads before 5 pm…….remembering dad letting us build an igloo outside the back door one year…….or the times dad took us to the Water Works to sled on those hills….even skiing  in our own neighborhood…..watching the ice thaw on the Saginaw River complete with crashing sounds under the power of Nature ushering in Spring.

No, I admit to becoming a bit disgruntled when folks complain about snow. It’s from winters past and future that I know many more happy memories are coming my way.  There are mugs of tea or hot chocolate to be enjoyed,  warm sweaters and slippers to keep me warm, and who knows…….maybe I  can  join a good snowball fight again to test my age old skills of dodging, bobbing, and taking careful  aim at a worthy opponent.

S = Seek God With My Whole Heart

U = Understand What Scripture is Teaching Me

S  = Sacrifice Time for Others

A = Acknowledge My Weaknesses

N = Never Question God’s Love for Others

Recently I had the privilege of hearing a gifted speaker present ideas and examples of how to develop a mission statement whether as an individual or as a family. I actually listened to this woman twice in the same day and walked away feeling challenged, intrigued, and inspired to give serious thought to this concept. In all honesty , I had never thought about writing a mission statement for myself, let alone for our family. Since the children are grown and living independently from us now, I have embraced the initial challenge of writing a statement that reflects ‘who I am’ and ‘who or what I desire to be’ while journeying through my life.

Surprisingly, as I sat down today to begin capturing my thoughts and giving words to desires, it really didn’t take a long time to accomplish what you read here using my name as an acronym. (Thank you mom and dad for not giving me a LONG first name….)

My first tenant to ‘seek God with my whole heart’ was a no-brainer. Since becoming a Christian believer over 30+ years ago, I have always pursued Him with a whole heart, even on my worst of days  or weakest attempts to be in communion with Him. Certainly, I have fallen short many days, even weeks, meeting with God one-on-one but I have long given up on feeling condemnation for my shortcoming in that regard. I may feel sadness in the long run, but I always return and it’s always with a whole heart…when a ‘hole’ in my heart needs patching.

I want to ‘understand scripture’. When I take time to circle key words and look up definitions I feel great satisfaction. I enjoy cross referencing and reading several versions of one scripture to find the hidden gems. I don’t want to merely read and do; I want God’s instructions for my life to be written on the walls of my heart and my mind.

Oooh…’sacrifice time for others’. This has always been a rough one for me. I like being in control of my day. I like to know a plan and stick to it. Wrong kinds of interruptions can set me in motion the wrong way. Cancellations can lend to disappointment and waiting patiently is a virtue still being sought on my part. I do like serving others; I don’t always do so with grace. God and I are working on this and He’s winning (smile).

Another oooh….’acknowledge my weaknesses’ which is really a polite word for sin(s). If you’re like me, that’s a topic we like to keep very private. I marvel and deeply appreciate people who have the courage and willingness to share deep, intimate details of past sin in their lives. I’m not like that. I have compartments in my memory. Several compartments contain experiences that I will talk about with great ease. Others are too personal. Maybe some day, but not yet. However, I am in pursuit of allowing God to reveal my faults to me so they can be brought to Him for forgiveness and redemption. Ministry training I’ve had teaches me to keep a ‘record of short accounts’–it’s amazing how spiritually clean I am when I put this into practice with a time of confessing and forgiving.

Lastly, ‘never question God’s love for others’…..He’s quite clear on His command to love others, to pray for enemies. In that I have no argument. My struggle is putting this commandment into practice when I hear, read, see the ugliness of sin all around me. I could write a book on how much I am grieved over lack of simple love and common decency in relationships, families, workplaces, communities, our nation, and the world. It’s so easy for me to fall into the trap of judging and making hasty assumptions when confronted with the reality of evil and ungodly behavior. Yet, when I take a deep breath, step back and observe after reminding myself to ‘see as Jesus would see’, my attitude (most of the time) changes and my heart softens. It’s during the moments of living in yet another ugly moment or news report that I remind myself to ask one simple question: “What is this person’s back story?” ….where were they wounded?…..who let them down?……when was love lacking? when did their world fall apart causing choices so contrary to the general goodness within each one of us?

Perfect or imperfect, this is my mission statement. Perfect or imperfect, this is me. My name is Susan, an imperfect woman who is being perfected by her relationship with God through His son, Jesus Christ.  Together, He and I are on a mission and I hope to greet you along the way. 

Something got into me yesterday. If that wasn’t enough of a surprise when I woke up this morning that ‘something’ came knocking at my door again and I let ‘it’ in with no hesitancy on my part. It wasn’t a stray animal, a spider, or a group of the elder bugs which bathed in the sun last week. No, nothing like that. It was subdued yet purposeful. It was quiet but created an on-going echo in my brain as I opened the door. I did not gasp. I did not shriek back in horror. I embraced this guest. I welcomed it and I gave it nourishment. I entertained “Cleaning Frenzy” for two days. I never left the house. I was confined within the walls, moving from room to room as I cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, washed, tossed, put away, and rearranged. If I didn’t know better I would have thought that I had entered a phase of “nesting” as pregnant women often do before giving birth to their baby.

“Cleaning Frenzy” had been an unwelcome guest in my home lately. In the past we’ve enjoyed numerous long, deep conversations which have stretched across the time within a week’s passing. Ignoring and not having “Cleaning Frenzy” in my home was no fault of hers–I take full responsibility for the estrangement that elapsed over time between our friendship. She would call, even leave a message or two, all to no avail. I chose to ignore her, to convince my mind that she didn’t matter and that I had better things to do with my time than drop everything just so she could be happy. That attitude worked during the summer months, when I could escape outside for a walk or run and even hop in the car and spend time with friends or shopping. While away from home I thought I had the upper hand in our relationship, but I have found out what a devoted friend she has been and continues to be in spite of my wrongful attitude.

“Cleaning Frenzy” waited patiently during the warm weeks and now that cooler weather has arrived, once again she sent a new message only this time it contained a bit more girth and oomph. The message came amongst dust balls the side of quarters, stacks of papers and magazines that have grown tired of being ignored, smudges on mirrors and windows that remind me we had Sarah’s little pups here for a few days. While the bathrooms had been ‘spot cleaned’ there were areas that beckoned for a wee bit more attention than a Lysol wipe can swipe. Even the closets weren’t safe from “Cleaning Frenzy”. Why, she made herself SO at home that she actually asked me to carry out three bags of unneeded and unwanted items to the dumpster. Of all the nerve. But, when I looked at how neat the closet shelves were after she tossed, rearranged, and washed inside I had to admit that she was onto something with all this energy she brought with her! She also encouraged me not to feel guilty about the ‘stuff’ that found a new home in the trash. Just how many tubes of half used body cream or mist does a person really need? and why do people keep candles that have been burned and don’t match the current decor? Then there’s the stack of photos that keep getting moved from one closet to another. How liberating to actually look through them one last time and discard the ones that were horrible to begin with or don’t conjure any real memory that needs to be archived any longer.

So, “Cleaning Frenzy” came to visit me for two days and we enjoyed a wonderful time together. As she left she lovingly reminded me not to let so much time go by before calling her again. As I smiled and waved I promised her I’d do just that. She left quietly and I’ve had ample time to relax along with enjoying the fruit of our labor, until “Personal Cleaner” called asking me why I’ve been ignoring her? Ouch. So, because I truly value the friendship I have with “Personal Cleaner”, after a hearty breakfast I got my favorite Bible and journal on my lap and dug into reading and reflecting on the wisdom that scripture has to share. “Personal Cleaner” and I spent some much needed time being quiet and admitting that some of “my own closets” were in dire need of being dusted and purged. And, though tempted to simply grab a thought and give a quick swipe of my inner most being to perform some ‘spot cleaning’ I allowed Jesus to do a more thorough washing. He nor I didn’t have to carry out three bags of trash, but He did remind me that “Cleaning Frenzy” and “Personal Cleaner” are two friends that deserve more consistency in our relationships.

Just as the cute pink graphic states…..I do consider myself to be in the process of recovering from perfectionism, a characteristic that I could write about in many different directions and expand my thoughts that would fill more than several pages. If i were to do so, I could choose to go the direction of blaming my past or a parent for this shortcoming, but I won’t. Instead, I’m choosing to write from a heart that really does struggle with being perfect and the sheer surprise discovering this trait although I never would describe myself as a “perfectionist”—raw reality is that I am…..I was…and probably will continue to be as I age.

When did I have this great revelation? The answer was given to me in August. I was attending a ministry training event which includes a session of personal ministry and God revealed to my team that “perfectionism” was an area of my life that had become a struggle in the negative sense of the word. While I don’t need or feel an obligation to divulge the entirety of the session, I do want to share my thoughts on how I arrived to realizing there is a struggle to be perfect waging within me…..at times.

I remember being in 7th grade homemaking class where I was learning to sew. Our first project was to construct a potholder. I was so excited when I purchased my fabric which was assured by the sales clerk to be ‘perfect’ for my project. I can still see it–it was white with pink polka dots. I eagerly watched our instructor as she taught us how to create our pieces and in each class demonstrate putting the pieces together. I always made sure I had a front row position to see her work so that when I sat down at my machine I could duplicate her work. Much to my dismay my efforts did not produce a beautiful piece of work. I remember using my little seam ripper over and over to remove badly stitched seams……eventually I became so frustrated over that little potholder that ‘fear’ came knocking at my door to take a seat next to ‘my project must be perfect’. Fear gained such a good seat, that I also recall trying to daydream or wish the clock to stop in my class before home economics. With each glance of the clock, the ticking of minutes giving way to the dismissal bell and the walk to home economics brought a sick feeling in my stomach. That little potholder was supposed to be a short, simple project but it turned into a giant mess threatening with my emotional well being. Each time I resewed my little potholder and presented it to the teacher for approval, I prayed that it “would be good enough” for her srcutinizing eyes. Following numerous tear outs and twisting of fabric I was finally finished, done–no more. I will always remember my grade–a C+.

7th grade was a long time ago, but in the years that have passed perfectionism has had many opportunities to show its ugly face. It has come through but not limited to: defining myself as a person, parenting skills, cooking talent, relationships, work, ministry, my home–I think you get the picture. My ministry team lovingly pointed out to me that for too long I’ve been striving to be perfect, worried that I will fall short, concerned with the opinions of others rather than looking for my affirmation and worth solely with God.

If struggling to be perfect isn’t enough, I also realized that another cohort likes to tag along and that’s “procrastination”. I’m real good at that one too. Connect the dots and the solution I found was that by procrastinating I didn’t have to worry about being perfect. Put off a hard or time consuming project long enough and you can’t fail, right? Wrong. An assignment, project, or task with a deadline will always win the battle for completion. I’ve put off making phone calls when I know the conversation won’t be an easy one. I’ve exchanged doing necessary reading for a leisurely few hours on the computer. The stress that results then from scrambling as the “deadline” approaches is mine and only mine as long as I don’t drag others into this part of my life.

It’s October now, only a couple of months since the head-to-head meeting regarding my perfectionism. I’d like to say that I’ve made some really good advances in winning the battle but I would be a liar. What I have won is a new and retained perspective that God doesn’t expect me to be perfect. It’s okay if I make mistakes. It’s okay too to allow my loved ones and friends to be themselves without interference from me. Gaining this insight and using it as a tool to navigate through each day has empowered me and helped to set me free. For awhile many of my expectations to do everything right was an agenda that was only readable to me; it was a hard copy in my mind completely hidden from others, yet I reasoned that others would take notice of a backslide and hold me accountable i.e. when I left my job in May I mentally made a commitment to write my blog on Tuesday. That mental promise to myself was upheld for quite some time until I began to receive invitations and offers for other things to fill my time. There have been several weeks when my blog wasn’t written until Wednesday. Well, today is Thursday and here is my blog and I can honestly say not ONE of my friends has contacted me to say “Where is your blog? What are you doing? Aren’t you going to stick to your promise? As absurd as it is, no one had to contact me because I was able to entertain those very questions all by myself until I got the key that unlocked the door named “Guilty Perfectionist”, opened it, and stepped on the welcome mat to the door called “Freedom Living”.

I’m thankful for the memory of a C+ potholder. I’m glad that experience is behind me yet the memory serves as a teaching tool for myself or to use for others struggling to be perfect. As that fearful, little 7th grade girl everything about the agony and frustrations of a poor sewing project consumed me to the point of wanting time to stop and caused me to lose focus of a bigger picture. Fast forward to gaining more skills and confidence as a seamstress and I’m pleased to report that I went on to constructing many garments for myself, my home, and my children. Most precious to me are the weeks that my mother-in-law and I spent together sewing my wedding gown. She was an advanced seamstress compared to my abilities, but I learned and I succeeded. In my mind I got an A for the dress and an A+ for precious time with a wonderful woman–so I kind of think those moments in time victoriously cancels out the C+ a little 7th grade girl received a long time ago and lends to my success of exchanging perfectionism for freedom.

Happy birthday? Yes. Happy Birthday to our daughter Sarah who celebrates her arrival on the scene September 29. (I will leave out her age in deference to allowing her to disclose that information).

Upon returning from my afternoon walk today, and as I sat down for a cool down and cold glass of water, I began to think “what shall I write about this week?” It’s not my intention to bore myself or my readers with drivel; I want my posts to be enjoyable, encouraging, offer an occasional chuckle or pause to ponder. It occurred to me that the end of September is just around the corner and with that comes Sarah’s birthday.

We love our daughter. She is our elder of two children. We waited awhile to have her after battling some infertility issues. Not everyone knows about that struggle. Fortunately for us, our depth of struggle pales in comparison to family members and friends whose experiences are quite different. Yet in consideration of all of that, God saw fit to gift us with Sarah at 3:40 pm on Sept. 29. She arrived on her due date. She was the first grandchild for Jim’s parents and was another granddaughter for my own. As all moms believe, I thought she was the most beautiful of all babies and was delighted that she was a most easy-going child who began sleeping through the night at age 7 weeks, did not cry or fuss a lot, and adapted readily to new situations. It’s hard to believe the number of years that those memories are from.

If you’ll bear with me, I’d like to write a love letter to my daughter. I do so not only to brag a little, but to encourage all mothers of daughters regardless of their age. So….

Dear Sarah:

As your mother I could not be more proud or ecstatic than I already am. From the time we knew a child was being expected, we wanted you. In fact, we yearned a long time for you. We prayed for you to come to us and God granted an answer to that prayer.
On Sept. 29 at 3:40 pm the doctor placed you in my arms. Thank you for not putting your momma through a horrific labor! After about 8 hours of labor you made your appearance and won the hearts of everyone immediately. It didn’t take us long to completely fall in love with you and we still enjoy hearing Grandpa Kretchman tell of how ‘two grammas were chomping at the bit to get behind the glass and hold you” while visiting us in the hospital. You were an incredibly easy baby to care for and transitioned into toddlerhood with great ease…..walked into elementary school with some fear…..and continued embracing changes with a degree of confidence spurred on by a small measure of encouragement from us when needed. No amount of space here could contain all the joyful memories we have of you thus far but I’d like to list a few which are in no particular order:

1. You belonged to Gramma Jewell on Thursday nights when dad and I attended church choir practice. Gramma could triple diaper you, a feat I never achieved
2. You were Uncle Jo-Jo’s niece who went everywhere with him, Bubba & Stash. Don’t think you knew their real names for a long time!
3. You surprised us all when we found out you were actually shy when you began kindergarten; you wouldn’t tell your principal your name
4. You were the hit with all the older folks at church, “Little Sarah” they called you.
5. Your ‘chattiness’ in 1st grade allowed your teacher to see this as a strength and she sat you next to a little boy who needed ‘some social skills’
6. You made friends quickly and by 6th grade you met Keri, became fast friends, and to this day she has never left your side; she has your back
7. When you were about age 8 you got a nickname “Sarah the Giver”. You’ve grown into that very nicely. On numerous occasions you have shared with me how you’ve been able to bless others because of God’s provision to you. You have even traveled to Honduras 3 times on mission projects–something I’m not sure I am capable of doing myself.
8. You are loyal to your brother (plus everyone in the family) to a level of description that words really can’t describe.
9. You’re funny–you have a way of saying things that blow me away with laughter.
10. You’re empathetic–you quickly identify with someone’s pain. You dislike mistreatment of others.
11. You enjoy learning, especially about God. You aren’t afraid to question and you don’t back down from a good debate. You know what you believe. You possess great discernment.
12. You are a wonderful prayer warrior.
13. You are a survivor. You’ve been hurt and you’ve hurt. But, we’ve seen you take ownership of what belongs to you and witnessed how you released the burdens to God’s care.
14. Your inner beauty far outweighs the outer beauty that you possess, a beauty that was fashioned by Christ and it has and still remains pure joy to see you grow, walk, and operate in that relationship with Him
15. You are loyal, you are a fabulous daughter, sister, granddaughter, cousin, niece, friend and now you’re a happy fiance to a great young man. It’s sweet to hear about your plans and the progress reports along the way.

So, happy birthday Sarah. When we celebrated your first birthday you cried when all the family gathered around you and your cake, singing. You don’t do that anymore. Now you can’t wait for birthdays and Christmas or “just because presents” because you enjoy receiving a gift as much as giving one. Our gift to you this year will be the same as always, promises to always love you unconditionally, support and encourage your dreams, listen attentively when it’s been a rough day, and continue to navigate through the coming years as you continue to grow into who God has created you to be. We will forever remain your greatest cheerleaders!
Much love–Da Momma & Da Daddy